Magnets Belong Together

My eyes widen in surprise. Is Dr. Jennings serious? I lift my head in her direction and see the wide, sincere smile on her lips. Delicate smile lines form around the corners of her mouth and I automatically wonder how old she actually is. She must be a little older than me, but no more than fifty. "Are you serious?"

Dr. Jennings, who seems to have anticipated such a question, nods in confirmation. "From today you can leave the room whenever you wish. You'll have to return here for the night's rest, but my forecast is that you should be assigned your own sleeping quarters in a few days. I guess there's a lot for you to discover here in Thirteen. The canteen, for example, is where you will eat your meals in the future. Your friends will surely be happy to see you again. I recommend that one of them show you around once so you can find your way around in the future."

The doctor rattles off her monologue and all I can do is try to absorb as much information as possible. So am I really free now? My gaze slides to the white door that has so far prevented me from leaving. Is this a Capitol trick, and might just another chamber of horrors await me behind this door? Do they want to get my hopes up even more, only for me to walk out of this room and find that we're still in the depths of prison?

"Friends?" It's the only word that escapes my lips.

Dr. Jennings, who must have noticed my hesitation, opens her mouth but seems to be searching for the right words because she pauses for a moment herself. "I can't imagine how confusing this must be for you, Miss Trinket. However, at no time during your journey in District Thirteen will you need to be alone. There are some people who have asked to visit you more than once. General Abernathy, of course, but also Finnick Odair and Katniss Everdeen."

Katniss was here? I can't imagine that. The girl tolerated me for the last two years, towards the end something like a fragile relationship developed. Haymitch is a cautious person, but Katniss surpasses him in this regard. It's not for nothing that her distrust and resentment of the Capitol led to this rebellion. But the thought of Finnick actually makes me happy. I can't remember the last time I saw him. All that's floating around in my head is the image from my dream of him raising his hands in the air to placate Katniss. I have no idea what happened to those two while I was being held captive in the Capitol. The same goes for Haymitch, whispers a silent voice in my head that I skillfully ignore.

"Thank you very much" is all I can muster. "I'm also happy to finally see them again." I mean my words this time. The thought of seeing them again sparks a long-forgotten feeling of warmth in my chest. Joy. Suddenly I can breathe a little easier.

oOo

My room looks like any other hospital room. A wide, flat monitor hangs on the wall opposite my bed. But since I don't see a remote control on the bedside table or anywhere else in the room, I don't assume it's for the patient's amusement like it is in the Capitol. It must be for emergencies or important transmissions that even the sick shouldn't miss.

After Dr. Jennings left the room, I finished my breakfast and then went to sleep for a few more hours. This time I didn't have any nightmares, the bright light, which can't be switched off manually, made sure of that. I have no problem sleeping under lights. Somehow it calms me down.

Now I sit in my bed and think about what to do next. A small part of me expected, or even hoped, that Haymitch would come and offer a tour of the District. I'm sure they informed him of my new exit times. But there is no trace of him. I can't explain why and it's not my place, but I feel let down again.

My eyes scan the small rectangular room. To my left, behind the bedside table, is a separate room that I haven't entered yet. A sliding door of opaque green glass separates it from the main room. It's probably a bathroom. It was built into the actual hospital room, as is the case with small overnight hotels in the city, to save space. In the front left corner stands a table and two chairs. It's probably intended for visitors, even if the gray plastic table, which doesn't even have a vase of flowers on it, doesn't look particularly inviting.

With a soft gasp, I straighten up and turn my head to the wall behind me. Behind the hospital bed I'm sitting in a row of buttons is mounted on the wall panel. Different colors with different symbols. I don't know what they mean, but apparently, I don't need to know, or Dr. Jennings surely would have informed me. There are also some connections and sockets. My heart-lung machine is plugged into one of them.

On the right side of the room, where the windows are still drawn by thick white curtains, stands a narrow closet at bed height. I wonder if I'll find any clothes there because I can't possibly set foot outside in the white hospital gown I'm wearing.

After some hesitation, I pull myself together to remove the machine's sticky pads from my body. I slowly push the covers aside and then, in one careful movement, swing my legs out of bed, sideways towards the window. When my toes touch the cool plastic floor, I briefly hold the weight and balance it on my feet. To my relief, using my legs feels completely normal. I wait a moment because I don't want to rush things and avoid an attack of dizziness, which doesn't happen. Then, with a little more vigor, I lean forward, shifting the weight of my body onto my feet, and finally stand up.

After the two steps to the closet, I'm relatively sure that I won't fall. I open the wooden door, which makes a squeaky creak and sticks for a second, and peek inside. A small pile of clothes is waiting for me. It's a gray uniform like the one Haymitch wore. District 13 doesn't seem to have much choice when it comes to clothes. I sigh to myself.

Before I take the clothes on, I check the size labels. I must have lost some weight if my previous size is two sizes too big. The people in charge must have taken that into account when they prepared the uniform for me. The uniform isn't all I find in the closet for myself: white nightwear, several pairs of socks, underwear and a pair of solid black boots. At the back of the closet lies a crumpled gray cloth. It was probably used as a tablecloth. I can't help the dislike for District 13 from growing in my chest. Whoever chose this gray must have been an unimaginative and austere person.

I look down at myself with growing displeasure. The white coat goes just above my knees. My shins are bare, bald and unshaven. Here and there bruises appear in various stages of healing. I get sick looking at my legs. A shiver grips my body. Almost in a hurry, I grab the uniform and inspect the bathroom on the other side of the room.

Except for my prison cell, which really couldn't be called a bathroom, I've never seen a bathroom that small. And yet everything you need fits in: a shower, a toilet and a washbasin with storage space and miniature shelves. A long rectangular mirror hangs on the wall above the sink. I immediately lower my eyes to avoid looking at myself. On the shelf I find a plastic cup with a toothbrush still wrapped up, a small pack of toothpaste, some soap and a brush. While I realize the toiletries are likely to be abysmal compared to the Capitol, I'm relieved to see them. There are several towels on the shelf and in the open shower stall there is shampoo, a body gel and, to my delight, a razor.

I quickly close the opaque glass door behind me, rip off my gown and step into the shower. A laminated sheet of paper is stuck to the white tiles next to the tap: Consumption of hot water is limited to 10 minutes a day. Please use sparingly. When I hear the word hot water, I have to pause in awe. When was the last time I took a warm shower? It must have been at the Training Center.

After a shower and shave I feel like a new person. I step out of the shower and dry my body with one of the towels. The rough fabric leaves my skin feeling itchy. As I put the towel aside, I can't help but observe myself in the mirror. A voice in my head says I shouldn't do it. A big part of me dreads the sight. It's a thought that finally makes me do it: Old Effie would have wanted to know the truth, no matter how hard it is to digest, and especially when it involves herself.

Still, it's a shock to me. I can feel my heart jumping in surprise and then stopping for a moment. The everlasting feeling of panic is spreading through my veins again, cold and insidious like a change in the weather at the end of autumn. My body is spindly thin, the ribs beneath my skin so prominent that the skin arches around them. I just breathe in and out for a few seconds, afraid my skin will tear across my bones with each breath. My figure looks like a lifeless phantom from a horror movie. The white skin that hasn't seen sunlight in ages is streaked with bruises. Some are barely visible and about to subside, and are dark green or yellow-brown in hue. Others, however, are fresher, especially in the back area and near my spine. They glow a flaming dark red. Very few have already adopted a dark blue.

That's not me. This isn't Effie Trinket. A desperate gasp escapes my lips and I feel the hot tears trying to make their way down my cheeks, but I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can. This is not the moment to burst into tears. Maybe it is, but I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to suffer anymore. I want to open my eyes and ... Yes, what exactly? What would I do now, where would I go now when this great nightmare finally ends?

I'm not Effie Trinket anymore. I've forced this thought into my head more than once in the last few months. What would be the point of denying this fact? What else do I have in common with Effie Trinket? I'm not influential, pretty, or happy. My lively, carefree life is over. That woman in the mirror is someone else entirely. Her ideals and values are completely different. The Capitol snatched them from her and with them a part of her personality, of Effie's personality. The Capitol eliminated Effie, but not me. I survived, albeit just barely.

As I look in the mirror at the slack features of this strange woman who is supposed to be me, supposed to be Effie Trinket, I ask myself again who is to blame for this situation. Effie realized early enough what the Games were about, she had eleven years to understand. She could have changed her mind, done something else. Then your family would still be alive. But the power that came with her position stopped Effie from doing so. Once tasted from the cup of spotlight, fame and wealth, few can resist. Effie couldn't do it. She wanted to make her parents proud, to surpass her sister. And what is all this for? Now there is no one left to surpass. The idea of Aurelia dead takes my breath away. The thought makes no sense in my head.

Thinking about what I'll do after this nightmare gets me nowhere. Who knows if I'll even be alive by then. I don't even know if I'm actually in District 13 and in safety. Safety. Is there still something like safety anywhere in Panem?

The blonde of my natural hair is dull and lackluster. My hair falls over my shoulders in short, uneven curls. The Peacekeepers used to rip out a few strands of my hair, but no one cut it. As I absently run my fingers through thin, brittle strands of hair, I conjure up images of vibrant, bright, dyed colors. I can't remember what wig I was wearing when I was arrested. In the Capitol, they come in a variety of shapes and lengths. Glitter, metallic, rhinestones, flowers, fading colors, colors that change with temperature. The memories seem pale and hazy to me, as if they were decades old. As much as my dislike for the Capitol has grown, I can't deny that those colorful wigs were a part of my life that I enjoyed and now miss. It was the wigs, the make-up that made me feel confident. Now, without all of that, I can hardly look myself in the eye with shame. I've been hiding from my natural self for too long.

The thought of stepping foot out of my room with that hair frightens me deeper than looking in the mirror. I stare down at the gray uniform. Like almost everything in my room, the uniform is a sickening dusty grey. I could possibly have lived with anthracite, but dust-grey? It seems to swallow up all the other colors, but maybe that's exactly the intention behind it. I don't care. It doesn't change anything.

The uniform actually fits, and I have to shake off the thought that going down two dress sizes would have made me very happy before. The fabric feels rough and strange on my body. Wrong. Just like the towel, it leaves my skin with an itch. It will probably take me some time to get used to this strange stuffy fabric that doesn't let my cells breathe underneath. It's not cotton, I notice that immediately. Guess that means I'll be sweating in it quickly ...

I leave the room with my hair wet but combed and go back to the closet to put the hospital gown in there. Anything else would be impolite. The option of going outside with this hair is still out of question. I'm already thinking about finding a pair of scissors to just cut my hair when I catch sight of the cloth still bunched up in the back of the closet. It's grey, as is probably everything here in 13, but since the cloth will probably serve as a makeshift table cover, the fabric is thinner than that of my uniform. Almost like a bandana, I try to tell myself.

Back in the bathroom, I tie my hair back and then carefully place the cloth on my head. When I'm sure that even the smallest lock of hair has disappeared under the cover, I tie the cloth in a knot so that it doesn't slip when I walk. The result isn't exceptional, but the air rushes back into my lungs with a little more vigor than before.

I lift my head one last time and look at my appearance in the mirror. The blue of my eyes has lost its luminosity, it has become dull and powerless. Just as the motivation to live melted away a little more with each additional day in prison. Now that there's no hair framing my jawline, my sunken features stand out. Somehow, they remind me of Haymitch, with the dark circles under his eyes and his lean face. The expression on it is similar, as if we had been through the same torments. I don't like the thought. Dr. Jennings's story about Haymitch's rehabilitation comes back to me and I have to look away.

We didn't go through the same torments, they couldn't have been more different. Still, I can't deny that we were somehow connected through all these months. My head was with him, at the beginning more than towards the end. His thoughts were also with me, although I don't know if Dr. Jennings may have exaggerated a bit with her story.

That's what scares me: the idea of Haymitch lying awake in bed at night thinking about me while I was being tortured and abused across the country. The thought of me lying bleeding and unconscious on the floor of my cold cell, his face the only thing keeping me alive in my mind's eye while he pictured me thousands of miles away, begging for forgiveness.

What a terribly odd couple we are.

-

Hi!

Nothing much to say here. This is mostly a transistion-chapter. Remember to follow my Pinterest if you're interested in how I imagine the protagonists and settings! My name there is ccskyllen. :)

See you,

Skyllen